


Flower Language

by WeCouldPretend



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Romans | Arthurian Romances - Chrétien de Troyes
Genre: Angst, Egyptian Guinevere, F/M, Fluff, Galahad owns his own flower shop, Galahad the self made man, I swear that this is mostly about Galahad and Mordred, Latino Mordred, Latino Urien, M/M, Modern AU, Mordred has no respect for the dead, Mordred's family just butts in, People of Color, Racism, Reborn AU, couples show up in the second chapter, flowershop au, non-typical, of course
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeCouldPretend/pseuds/WeCouldPretend
Summary: Galahad's flower shop is having a slow week until a customer comes in to buy a very particular flower arrangement..."Once in a blue moon, something properly exciting happened during Dead Week.The bell tingled cheerfully as the door opened. Galahad looked up from the computer where he was playing a round of solitaire (dead week indeed) to find that his customer had already stalked up to the front desk.“Hello, how can I help you?” Galahad asked politely, trying to engage calmly with the agitated young man on the other side of his counter.“Yes. I need a funeral arrangement that says as close to ‘rot in hell you evil bastard’ as you can make.”





	1. How To Say "Fuck You"

**Author's Note:**

> This will be multichapter (my first!), so the tags and warnings will vary with the chapter, so just be warned. 
> 
> This story also has a huge backstory that I will probably not be dragging out, but if you're curious, by all means come and find me @Knight-of-the-Kitchen on tumblr! I am happy to spill my guts!

Galahad loved his flower shop. It had taken him six years and an internship to open it, and it was perfect. Not in the way most people thought of flower shops, but it was perfect for him. There were no fake stone countertops or linoleum floors, no massive commercial vacuum sealed refrigerators displaying ready-made arrangements, no glossy catalogues. There was just him, and the old house he’d transformed into his shop. It was in a good part of town, on a busy enough corner where he got good foot traffic during the summer, and with enough space for a small parking lot out back. 

His family had helped restore the house, bit by bit into the business. Re-sanding wooden floors; Putting in huge refrigerators; Trimming everything with wood; Revamping the back half of the house into a greenhouse had taken an entire summer of work and a contractor’s assistance, but it had been well worth it. Galahad himself had cobbled together the years of carpentry taught to him by his mother in order to create his ideal front counter. By some standards, it wasn’t the best flower shop, but it was the most perfect that Galahad could ever hope to have. And it was booming. He had a staff of three, and part-time help during formal dance season and holidays. To have a corsage from his shop took a call at least two weeks advance notice, and he had people calling in as soon as they’d gotten the go-ahead from their date. 

His friend Gaheris’ design software and website detailing the look and “meaning” of each combination of flowers had immediately become wildly popular. Designing a boutineer had never been simpler when submitting a color scheme, which a customer could do from pre-set choices, or by uploading a picture of the relevant outfit or event plan.Galahad’s yelp ratings had gone through the roof when his friend had gotten everything up and running. 

And yet, for all the fancy tech, it was still his creaky old converted home, with warm green walls and brown trim and wood floors and scattered flower cases. Galahad liked it best this way. Flowers were a personal statement. People should always feel at home when picking out their statement. Flowers were living things, ultimately, and relying on a cold computer to bring to life what you had in mind was always a gamble. 

Then there were off weeks. Weeks when nothing happened. The weeks between dances and holidays and graduations and formals. Brangaine, his best friend and employee had affectionately coined these times“dead weeks”. These were the weeks that Galahad spent trimming his plants, refreshing all the water, cleaning, and best of all: walk-in designs. During dead weeks, the notice would go up on the websites; “Walk-In Week! Fifteen minute bouquets, arrangements and bundles. Orders made on the spot! Price is flower-dependent and reduced.” 

His regulars would instantly pounce on the chance to order fresh flowers, and it was the highlight of his week to see 80-year-old Vivian swagger in with her hair dyed blue and her cane done up in a new kind of duct tape so she could pick out some daisies and carnations for her windows. It was also when fighting spouses appeared with dark circles under red eyes, requesting their beloved’s favorite flowers with a thousand-yard stare. 

But, once in a blue moon, something properly exciting happened during Dead Week. 

The bell tingled cheerfully as the door opened. Galahad looked up from the computer where he was playing a round of solitaire (dead week indeed) to find that his customer had already stalked up to the front desk. 

“Hello, how can I help you?” Galahad asked politely, trying to engage calmly with the agitated young man on the other side of his counter. 

“Yes. I need a funeral arrangement that says as close to ‘rot in hell you evil bastard’ as you can make.” The customer requested, sliding forty dollars onto the counter. 

For a moment all Galahad could do was stare at him. It wasn’t a bad moment, the customer was about his age and darkly attractive in the way that always got Galahad into trouble. Black curly hair, leather jacket over a frankly stunning black suit, and coppery skin was just the right combination to make the florist’s heart skip a beat. 

“What?” Galahad spluttered, yanked out of his reverie by the thought of the request. “You want what?” 

“I want a ‘fuck you’ arrangement for a funeral. Please.” The customer stated, tacking on the last word as an afterthought. It took Galahad another moment to process the request, but he nodded and motioned for the man to follow him to the back. 

Galahad picked up an arrangement base as he walked towards flower storage.  
“What’s your name? For the order?” 

“It’s Mordred Lahada. Thank you for this, I know it’s an unusual request.” The customer responded, flashing a brief smile at Galahad. His heart skipped another beat. 

“Not a problem! Always happy to help scorn the dead.” Galahad replied, a little more shrilly than he would have liked. He whipped out a sharpie and wrote the name on the sticker on the side of the arrangement base. Something about the name sounded mildly familiar, but he knew for certain that they’d never met before. There’s no way he could have possibly forgotten someone like this.

“Bastard deserves it. Now, which combo of these delicate little wonders is the most insulting?” Mordred motioned grandly to the containers of flowers surrounding them in a rainbow of color. It snapped Galahad back into the present and away from the momentary flash of familiarity. It must have been deja vu and nothing more.  
“Well we’ll start with my personal favorite; an orange lily for hatred.” Galahad grabbed three long-stemmed lilies and placed them in the center of the arrangement. “Very eye catching. Next something perhaps a little more subdued, some petunias. They mean resentment.” He snagged a handful of the purple-blue flowers and scattered them around the outside of the arrangement, adding in some greens to bulk out the pot. He was aware that he was babbling, but couldn’t find it in himself to shut up once he’d gotten started. He reached for the next flower. “Tansy next, to round out those two.”

“Isn’t that a Victorian declaration of war?” Mordred asked, leaning over Galahad’s shoulder to peek at the arrangement falling into place. 

“Yes! Somebody paid attention in history.” Galahad laughed, fighting to keep it from turning into a giggle. That would have been just too embarrassing. He refocused on rearranging the flowers in the base of their pot, making sure that there was enough floral foam in the bottom to keep them all in place. Above all else, he was resolutely not looking at his handsome customer. 

“I should hope I did, I’m currently in the middle of a history degree.” Mordred smirked, leaning back against the wall he’d been standing by to keep out of Galahad’s way. 

“Very nice. And your minor?” Galahad asked, fussing with the order combination of the with the peonies he’d just grabbed out of one of his buckets. 

“Actually, not quite. I’m getting two masters degrees at the moment. History, with a focus in linguistics and computer software engineering.” Mordred offered the information with a shrug, as if it wasn’t the most intriguing and attractive combination of interests that Galahad had heard in a fortnight. 

“Oh. Wow. That certainly is a wide range of interests. Well Mr. double masters, I think I’m about done. What do you think?” Galahad stepped aside to allow Mordred to look at the finished piece. It was a beautiful arrangement with the peonies and the lilies in the center and the rest of the flowers neatly fanning out around it. 

“Looks lovely and insulting to me. That’s both of my requirements fulfilled.” Mordred held the door to the cooler open, letting Galahad walk out while balancing the arrangement in his arms. 

“Could you make sure that door shuts behind you?” Galahad asked, waiting for the nod of acknowledgement before making his way up to the front counter. Mordred joined him there a moment later and leaned on the counter as Galahad added up flowers. 

“You know, I don’t think I caught your name.” Mordred drawled, managing to find just the right spot in the arrangement so that Galahad was staring at him through the greens. 

“Galahad. It’s Galahad.” The florist spoke before his head had a chance to catch up with the rest of him. He pushed the receipt at his customer, feeling a blush start to creep up his neck. 

“A handsome name for a handsome face. It suits you well,” Mordred praised, the cadence of the words sounding like something out of a fairytale. Galahad’s heart missed its third beat in as many minutes as the blush flooded through him. 

“Pretty smooth, coming from someone who's telling a dead person not to keep the Devil waiting.” Galahad shot back, quickly counting out Mordred’s change and pushing it across the counter. The other man winked and tipped it into his wallet. 

“If you say so, Galahad.” Mordred failed to rise to the bait and instead responded with a roguish smile that made the florist weak in the knees. The sound of his name from that mouth was just too much. This entire situation was too much. With that, Mordred scooped up the arrangement and headed for the door. “Thanks for the flowers, I’ll see you around.”

“Good luck with the funeral!” Galahad called at Mordred’s retreating form. As the door shut, he melted against the wall, slid onto the floor and buried his head in his hands. Whatever had just happened, even if he never saw Mordred again, Galahad was never going to be able to forget this Dead Week.


	2. How To Pick Your Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mordred endures a funeral, the rest of the family gets introduced, and it is made plainly clear why this funeral is something to be celebrated. Oh and of course, some delicious awkwardness between our boys, because they can't seem to do anything right. Ever. 
> 
> “It’s the end of an era, children, and the dawn of another. Let’s get ready for guests.” Igraine declared, rising from her seat as the door to the funeral home opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day! Since I can't be with my loved one, here have a chapter of this instead
> 
> In reference to the new tags, Urien is from Ecuador, and so both he and Mordred are both Latino. Guinevere is Egyptian. And while not really a poc, Elaine is French.

Mordred arrived at the funeral home on time, and quickly placed the arrangement where it was supposed to go. Between two picture boards and a memorial plaque. Best to get this over with quickly. He sat himself between his parents, who were discussing dinner plans for afterwards in hushed Spanish, very obviously trying not to bother his grandmother.    


Mordred’s maternal grandmother, Igraine, was crying daintily into his Auntie Guin’s hijab. She was understandably stressed and exhausted, having stayed with her husband from the moment of the stroke until the very end, then promptly organized his funeral. It was no great loss, truly, even Abuela  wasn’t really sad to see the old bastard gone. He’d put her through hell and back, and ostracized their children on top of dragging her all over the world for business.    
  
Mordred excused himself from between his parents and hugged Abuela from behind, offering all the comfort he could.    
  
“Thank you,” Auntie Guin smiled, ruffling his hair as Abuela dried her tears and pulled him into a hug. “The arrangement looks lovely.”    
  
“Are you doing alright Abuela? Do you want to sit down?” Mordred asked, offering his grandmother the seat in the front row meant for her, a bit down from his own seat. She nodded gratefully and let him lead her to her seat. Uncle Arthur handed her a box of tissues.    
  
“I’m just, I’m overwhelmed right now. I need to get this over with. And then I need all of my kids under my roof again so we can go through everything together.” Igraine declared, shooing Mordred back to his seat.    
  
“Of course Mom, we’d be happy to help out however we can.” Auntie Guin responded, sitting down beside her husband and tangling her fingers in his.    
  
“It’s the end of an era, children, and the dawn of another. Let’s get ready for guests.” Igraine declared, rising from her seat as the door to the funeral home opened.     
  
To everyone’s surprise, in traipsed the Orkneys. Or, that’s what they were informally known as. Morgause Orkney, walked in, leading along her four boys, all in their family tartan. Gawain, the eldest grandchild, was four years older than Mordred, who barely came eye to eye with his cousin. He had red-gold hair and warm eyes that held a constant, smoldering spark of something dangerous in them. The twins, Gaheris and Agravaine were two years younger than Mordred, and the youngest, Gareth, had come three years after them. They all had the same hair and constant air of recklessness that came with being strongly, unapologetically Scottish, with the exception of the baby. Gareth was blond like his mother, soft and gentle mannered with nothing to prove. 

  
Mordred loved his cousins, and made the rounds to embrace each as well as his Auntie Morgause. She was easily the most distraught over the death, living as far away as she did meant that she was unable to visit during the last few months of her father’s rapidly declining health.  Life was hard on a single mother with four boys, and she worked tirelessly as a lawyer to try to support them. Mordred (and his cousins) felt that she never got the recognition she deserved.    
  
The next three hours went by in a blur of people that Mordred had never seen before in his life, uttered racial slurs at his Hijabi aunt and Latino father, his Abuela crying, and his mother cursing someone by slipping a hex bag into their purse, and his other aunt furiously trying to smooth things over. In other words, it went over like a sack of bricks. His family was scattered throughout the room, receiving guests, reliving memories and trying their hardest to ensure that someone was always by Abuela’s side. Both Auntie Guin and Uncle Arthur disappeared periodically without warning, and generally appeared with a petite blonde woman that Mordred had never seen before. But he tried to be good, standing shoulder to shoulder with Gawain, answering questions and trying to look appropriately depressed. Through the haze of people who somehow knew his hateful grandfather, Mordred found his thoughts wandering back to the flower shop.

The florist had been remarkably cute, and it had been a thousand years since Mordred had found such easy compatibility with anyone in such a short period of time. For once in his life, Mordred idly entertained the idea of something more sustained than just a quick chat. It was a quaint idea, to consider a date, or any relationship at all. He overall preferred night stands. They were less complicated, less fuss, but maybe it was worth a shot to break the pattern. 

Mordred mulled it over as he took his seat. He was only partially listening as the service began. It was far too dull to be worth putting his full attention on. Someone was talking. A moment of silence happened. The dark haired pagan ignored it all. His mother was much the same, keeping her head bowed respectfully but in large part ignoring the speaker. They would celebrate his passing in their own way at home, away from prying eyes. 

Gawain subtally leaned over from the seat next to Mordred and poked him in the thigh. Both were acutely aware of the risk they were taking in communicating during the ceremony. Mordred responded anyway, glancing over to meet Gawain’s sideways look. His cousin shot him a quick grin before mouthing, “Almost done.”

It took some effort to hold the sigh of relief inside of his lungs, but somehow he managed. He let it show in his shoulders, so Gawain knew he understood, then they both consciously lapsed back into being solemn statues. It was both a blessing and a curse to be almost done. On one hand, this had been the most boring thing Mordred had done in years, and there were very few things that were worse than sitting through this interminable ceremony. On the other, one of those worse things was definitely trying to keep his mouth shut around the exact kind of people that had been invited to this stupid thing. After that, all they needed to do was clean up and head to dinner at his grandmother’s favorite restaurant. Mordred took another deep breath and rose from his chair. He could do this.

 

***********  
  


Galahad slipped in the back door of the funeral home to find his Mother waiting by the door. He’d been able to hand off the flower shop to Bran with barely enough time to change into something more presentable for the occasion. 

“You’re late.” She stated, careful to keep any accusation out of her voice. “Just in time to help clean up.” 

“Auntie Guin said to come at this time,” Galahad protested, holding his hands up in front of him like it would prove his innocence, “She said she wanted help cleaning up everything. Plus, I had to wait for Bran to show up so she could take over the shop while I was gone.”

“It’s true Elaine, I did.” Guinevere said, appearing in the hallway as Galahad stopped speaking. 

Elaine jumped, gasped, and spun at a blinding speed to face the woman who had just entered the quiet hall. Galahad couldn’t help but smirk at the tense little moment between his mother and Guinevere that seemed to hover, as it always did, on the edge of a knife. It shattered instantly when Guinevere smiled and winked at Galahad over Elaine’s head. 

“Enfoiré,*” Elaine’s smile was saccharine as she greeted her companion, “I think it’s time we returned to your vile father-in-law’s acquaintances.”

Guinevere replied, very obviously trying not to burst into laughter. She wrapped an arm around Elaine’s shoulder and turned them both towards the direction of the voices. “Yes, I think so. Come along Galahad.”

Galahad relaxed infinitesimally at the sound of his aunt’s voice, reassured as he always was by her calmness about the situation. It couldn’t be that bad if she was so cheerful about it. 

They stepped into the room full of supposed well-wishers and almost immediately heard someone make a snide remark about how much better Uther’s son could have done for himself if he’d married a nice British girl. All Galahad could see was red. The inherent racism itself was enough to make him want to start a fight with whoever had uttered it, but to know that it was pointed at his aunt? Unforgivable. His knuckles went white as he took one stupid, unchecked step forward. 

“No. Galahad. It’s not worth it. Just go stand in the corner and wait for more people to leave.” Guinevere ordered in French. All the warmth had leached out of her voice and every vertebrae in her back looked like it had been attached to a ramrod. In a fraction of a second, Guinevere went from relaxed to being an ebony statue. 

Galahad, as always, defaulted into taking whatever his guardians said at face value and immediately responded to his aunt. He filtered his way along the back wall, avoiding shoulders and eyes and doing his best to slip into the background. Being a wallflower at 6’1 wasn’t exactly easy, but he managed to pull it off between some heavy slouching and a healthy dose of bad vibes. Nestling himself into the corner, Galahad prepared to wait for the throng of people to filter out. The only real thing of any interest to do until then was look at the flowers. 

People always sent huge arrangements to funerals. It dated back to a time when people would use the flowers to mask the smell of a rotting corpse. The thought of Nana Pendragon’s nasty husband rotting away somewhere made Galahad smirk. This was a good day, whether people knew it or not. A chance to honest-to-god celebrate a death, and a chance to see the best wares his competitors had to offer. 

The first arrangement he spotted was his own, one that Uncle Arthur had commissioned. It was a big, gaudy thing that Galahad had intentionally made to look bigger than it should have been with trick spacings and more greens than actual flowers. Not that anyone besides himself and Uncle Arthur would ever know anyway. The second one he saw was very clearly from some dime-a-dozen 1800-flowers place. It looked waxy and coated in a thin sheet of glycerine, as if the little amount of shine and preservation it gave the flowers made up for the absolutely hideous combination and terrible presentation. The third was one Galahad didn’t recognize. It was tasteful and subdued, with suitable white roses. Stately even. Not too bad, but it must have come from at least three towns over. The fourth. Oh. Fuck. The fourth one. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enfoiré = Fucker
> 
> It is worth noting here that Guinevere and Arthur are Muslim, Mordred and his mum are pagan, Uriens is Catholic, as is Morgause, and Igrane's agnostic. Galahad and Elaine aren't terribly religious.
> 
> Of course, any and all comments (screaming at me for leaving this like this especially) is welcome in the comments below! The kudos button is also down there, and if you want to come screech back and forth with me about how awkward these two idiots are, my tumblr is @Knight-of-the-Kitchen! feel free to message me whenever. I don't sleep. Extra thanks to GwynDuLac once again for being my editor and partner, I'd probably fall apart without them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much! I can't wait to have the next chapter ready for this, I'm really excited for my first long-ish fic!
> 
> Again, I'm @Knight-of-the-Kitchen on tumblr, and you can always catch me on here! My Beta was the lovely @GwynDuLac, and I thank my lucky stars for her every day.


End file.
